


Pride, Prejudice, and Pomegranates

by AlexaRae



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst and Humor, Drama, Dysfunctional Family, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, F/M, Heterosexual Sex, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Light BDSM, Mental Health Issues, Romance, Self-Discovery, Suicide Attempt, Verbal Abuse, contemporary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 00:14:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22006783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexaRae/pseuds/AlexaRae
Summary: I wanted to disappear, but you took my escape from me. Now you want to "protect" the life you rescued. You want to control me? Very well. I'll be your marionette. Pull my strings and watch me dance. Warning: Mature Themes, Suicide References, Sexual Situations, Language. Status: In Progress





	1. Prologue

That her tongue should take the pomegranate seed so delicately into her mouth, and that her lips, stained a rich burgundy, should close around it like curtains falling at the final act, made the finality of her actions all the more pervasive; and when he closed his arms around her, breath like ice on her cheek, lean form stooping to consume her, she felt herself falling…falling… falling… back into the void of his arms and the Underworld he promised.

Prologue

As I popped open the pill bottle, it suddenly occurred to me that only one thing matters in life: media. Outside the window of my executive suite, 44 floors below, a bank of streetlights illuminated the roads of Metro City and transformed them into golden canals, sectioning off the city like metropolitan puzzle pieces.

On the ground floor, effervescent billboards for teeth whitening, Coca-Cola, and AT&T hugged street corners and busy intersections. Across the street, visible from where I lay scooping pills down my throat, patchy ribbons of white, pink, and blue spiraled around skyscrapers like something from a TV show about makin’ it big in the big city. Shakespeare once said, “all the world’s a stage” and that certainly still holds true; except for the fact that this stage comes with a new dose of lights, camera, action.

The city pulsed at night, all cars honking and whispers from sirens selling sex, lies, and push up bras. I pressed my hands unsteadily over the creases in the hotel comforter, smoothing them out once, twice, and then a third time in that irritable fidgety manner I had adopted at some point during my childhood, when the stress and family expectation became…too much. Too much. I suppose I wanted to die prettily, picturesquely if you will, with nary a fold out of place and my makeup perfectly painted.

Surely, many people had experienced worse trials than I, an upper-“middle” class girl of admittedly above-average looks whose parents owned, well, three homes if you included the beach house AND the lake house. A girl who had been spoiled with themed birthday parties, paid tutors, and no less than three extra-curricular activities at any given time. A girl whose parents had never undergone a marital separation or divorce. Still, while intellectually aware of my many blessings, I could not help but feel… like I was a waste of a human life, like I would never make my family proud, like I would never be happy or fulfilled.

Why wasn’t I happy?

Why was I never happy?

Why couldn’t I ever do anything right?

The dream had been simple really: graduate from an overly-expensive college Summa Cum Laude with an English degree, secure a position as an Assistant to an Editor of ANY book publishing company, rise through the ranks and become an Editor at said company, and prove to my parents that I did not need to go to Law School like my brother to be a success.

Unfortunately, I never considered the fact that my parents might not want to pay for my English Degree as they had for my brother’s Law School, that the student loans would be so goddamn expensive, that getting a job after college would lead me into an endless pit of retail, and that I would find myself strangely stalled at 25, unable to move forward and steadily sinking into some infinite cycle of despair and self-pity. Really, it was pathetic.

The pills rolled down my throat like pebbles and inwardly cursed myself for not grabbing a before lying down, but then some part of me did not want to commit suicide like a wimp and deemed that getting up for water would be somehow cheating. Not exactly a logical conclusion, but the entire night had been arranged rather haphazardly. White mist circulated through my head and I began to wonder if mist could really make a person feel so utterly weighed down.

And then the door to my suite opened and shut.

From the entryway, a deep voice thundered in displeasure followed by words that sounded like curses – words that caused my ears to buzz. The banging of footsteps. Two long fingers slipped between my lips and into my mouth, pressing into the back of my throat, causing my body to convulse, wretch and regurgitate.

So much for dying prettily.

So much for dying.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

I did not set out that morning with a bottle of pills in my pocket. On the contrary, I began my day feeling rather… happy… and even a little confident, outfitted in a borrowed pastel dress and a pair of well-worn nude heels. Perhaps that sounds a bit blasé, but it’s the truth. I left the apartment with a single primary objective: enjoy my long-awaited Saturday off, the first I’d had in months.

I suppose most suicide attempts generally necessitate more… planning, and while there was emotional build up, the spontaneity of the event was, I’ll admit, utterly untactful. That’s the word my mother would use: “untactful”. She might also call it “embarrassing”.

The air was floral and faintly warm, tasting like the beginnings of springtime with all the fresh hope, cloudless blue skies, and jasmine-scented breezes a girl could ask for. My hair tumbled down my back to my tailbone, shining like melted milk chocolate in the sun. I had brushed my lashes with drugstore mascara, stained my lips pink, and even added a pale kiss of blush to my cheeks. To put it simply, I felt pretty and witty and bright.

In fact, I felt so grand I sashayed into a coffee shop and purchased an overpriced Instagram drink with my glossy new credit card, displaying all the pomp and entitlement I could muster while wrinkling my nose at the taste. The card had been acquired to act as a safety net should the rent check prove too daunting or should my Toyota Camry suddenly-- perhaps a better word is “finally”-- sputter and die. But on that day, I decided it would buy a pretty drink that made me wince with each sip.

I plopped myself down in a window seat and pretended, a bit unconvincingly, to fiddle with my cellphone as I discreetly slid my gaze through the glass to study the people shuffling past the shop: a grinning tour guide leading a pack of segues, a wild-eyed woman walking six corgis, a child clutching an ice cream cone piled high with a sweet spiraling twist, a man on a unicycle, a clique of women in high heels chattering at each other, a homeless person muttering softly…

I let my eyelids droop as I observed the throngs, taking pleasure in the unique and comfort in the commonplace. Suddenly the strange sour-berry tang of my shimmery drink tasted like the city; fun and eccentric, albeit a bit difficult to swallow.

_Il Caffé_ was a rather small establishment tucked between a knickknack store that displayed shiny bobbles and a restaurant that proudly sold the 2nd Best Noodles in Metro City. The hardwood flooring, intricately carved tables, and thickly padded walnut chairs gave the shop a rustic feeling, while the dim golden lighting and heady scent of coffee beans relaxed the senses. A glass display proudly boasted delicate cakes, syrup-drizzled delights, and an assortment of desserts meant to tickle the palate when combined with a rich coffee. Regret flipped in my stomach as I sipped my candy-flavored milkshake mess. Well, this was what I got for trying to be fabulous.

I wondered if people watched me the way I watched them. Did they see a fashionable beauty or a sad, pathetic mess sipping congealed gummy worms and vanilla soup? Maybe getting this drink was a bad idea. Did I look silly? Did I look like I was trying too hard?

Work it, girl. Be sexy. Be alluring.

Did people get coffee alone?

I propped one elbow on the table and rolled my chin lazily into my palm, crossing my legs at the thigh and considering my cellphone with a bit more interest; a fine momentary distraction until I noticed five blaring missed calls from “Mother”. I should really call her. Really, I should. Only a terrible person would ignore her mother’s phone calls. It could be an emergency! There was no logical reason not to call her back. No reason to keep putting it off. No reason at all…

I dialed her number and silently prayed she would be in a pleasant mood, feeling my fingers drumming a bit too rapidly against the table. I clamped my teeth together when they started chattering. Why was I so weird?

Why did I do this to myself?

I took a long sip of the drink as the phone rang out.

“John is getting _married_!” The sourness of my drink suddenly caused my throat to itch. I coughed and sputtered into a napkin, juggling the phone one-handed.

“Married?” I gasped. Well, at least she was fixated on a neutral topic. All in all, I would rather discuss my older brother’s marriage as opposed to my post-college failures. “That’s wonderful, mother! I can’t believe he really popped the question.”

Of course, I could believe it. John was such a planner and his courtship struck me as oh-so predictable. Beth Browning came from a good family, her father owned the firm John worked for, and—most importantly—mother approved of her. In high school, I had seen the words “marriage to a girl mother likes” written on his Lifetime Planner, wedged between earning his first promotion and turning 30. I personally hoped they would grow to like each other before the wedding, because from what I had seen she found him overly meticulous and he found her shrill.

“And what about _you_ ,” mother’s voice queried, placing a drawling emphasis on the ‘you’. “Have _you_ started seeing anyone?”

I paused.

Best not to mention my brief rendezvous with a waiter or my Tinder mishaps.

“Not really,” I mumbled, nervously glancing around-- as if anyone would care to listen to my inane conversations. Still, it felt as though I were on an elevated platform—my own little stage— with eyes watching my every move. “Dating isn’t really the first thing on my mind.”

“Well, my dear,” she said. “I suppose you _should_ focus on finding suitable employment. You’re much too homely to make a career out of motherhood.”

A pause.

I listened to her berate her manicurist for a couple minutes as I pushed around my cup. My eyes wandered to my painted nails, finding the chips and nibbled skin. I compared them to the hands of other women in the shop. Were mine normal? Were they better or worse?

“Lilith? Pay attention,” her words forced me to end my hand-centric comparative analysis. “Have you found anything else? Even a secretarial position would be preferable to… _retail_.” The last word spoken with a hiss.

“I have a couple interviews lined up,” I mumbled, the lie tasting more sour than the drink. “I’m trying.”

The second half of the statement was partially true. I applied to ten different positions over the last two weeks without so much as a callback, and the rejection throbbed in my temples, spreading into a growing legion of self-doubt and anxiety that kept me thrashing beneath my sheets at night. In addition to this, coupled with a thousand different thoughts that whispered into my ear as faint voices, something of a concentrated dread settled over me whenever I endeavored to sleep. I felt haunted by these spectral thoughts, their constant hissing, chastising, taunting…

“Your brother was hired by Broward and Browning straight out of law school,” my mother said. “Did you hear that Cordelia Lawndale’s daughter just became a magazine Editor—oh dear, I don’t remember the name of the damn thing-- _and_ she’s getting married in the spring to that lovely young man, Vincent Beauregard! That could have been you! He used to be so sweet on you when you were children. Do you know how embarrassing it is for me to tell my friends that not only is my daughter single, but she also works for _minimum wage_ in some store no one of substance has ever even heard of? You’re such a disappointment.”

“I know. I’m sorry, mother,” I whispered. Somehow, the air had been sucked from my lungs and I found myself desperately trying to refill them. It felt as though I were breathing through a straw and my chest burned with the effort. I tried not to let her hear my labored, fishlike gulping as I stood, my hand over the receiver, and shuffled towards the bathroom so that no one could see me having a breakdown over what anyone else might consider a perfectly normal conversation. It was perfectly normal, wasn’t it?

And then I ran into a human wall.

Given the fact that I was desperately trying to avoid eye contact while balancing a purse on my shoulder, a phone in one hand, and a drink in the other, I suppose the collision was inevitable. I crashed into the broad chest of a stranger and, with an unintentional flick of my wrist, turned his sleek gray suit into what can only be described as a tie-dye glitter explosion. The apologies spilled out of me in a flustered rush.

“Oh shit, I’m so sorry,” I started, voice cracking, as I turned to grab for clean napkins from a nearby table and endeavored, clumsily, to mop up the mess. “So so so sorry. I’m such an idiot.”

“Good god, Lily! What did you do?” my mother groaned from the phone which perched between my ear and shoulder.

“I-I have to go,” I said quickly, somewhat glad for an excuse to hang up but not so glad when I recognized the quality of the ruined suit, probably worth several months’ rent and most likely the end of my little spending spree.

I had yet to raise my eyes to the owner of the chest which was, quite awkwardly, at eye level. The outfit, artfully crafted and tailored, clung to the body of the man in front of me like a second skin. I mused that it was a very nice body and then felt my anxiety heighten. Given my petite stature at 5’2” I often found myself dwarfed by others, so I really should not have been intimidated, but I was too frazzled, too embarrassed, and too close to tears to look up.

“I’m sorry, I’ll get it dry cleaned for you…o-or pay you back.”

Each word that tumbled out of my mouth was shakier and a little more breathless than the last. I wanted to bite my own tongue to shut myself up. Why couldn’t I just be quiet? Why was I such an embarrassment to myself and my parents…?

The word-vomit was silenced when a large hand covered both of my own, clasping the wrists firmly with fingers that seemed like shackles.

“Think nothing of it,” the man replied with a dismissive hand gesture, and I could not help but think that his voice reminded me of caramel, all silky and rich. Why hadn’t I purchased something with caramel? A caramel macchiato would have been nice, or some other delicious thing. If I had bought something like that then I would have gulped the entire thing down and this collision and spillage never would have happened. He pulled me out of my lamenting as he continued, “You have done me such a favor by forcing me to get rid of my favorite suit.” He dropped my hands unceremoniously and tapped my chin upwards, indicating that I should meet his eyes.

Any guilt I felt was squashed by his entitled face-touching.

I felt my shoulders square and looked up to meet a gaze that shone the color of a storm-fraught sky. Originally moderately amused, his eyes seemed to sharpen with intensity as he scanned my face. The man was tall, as previously indicated, and quite broad shouldered with a fit but not overly muscular physique. He had his dark wavy hair swept back from his face and, coupled with his strong jawline and cool expression, he was as unfortunately good-looking as my bad luck would warrant.

“Bad day,” he queried. It was more a statement than a question, and he arched an eyebrow as he said it. I decided I did not like this stranger whose clothing I had demolished in my haste to escape…everyone.

“Terrible,” I said, moving to go around him. “Sorry about making you sparkle.”

I thought the conversation was over, but I found him following me towards the bathroom.

At first, I ignored it, but once we were so clearly near the restrooms I snapped, “Excuse you. Please don’t follow me.”

He looked at me blandly. Blinked slowly. “As much as I appreciated you hammering my chest with paper towels, I think I will need to assess and remedy the damage on my own,” he nodded towards the men’s room.

I felt my cheeks burn.

“Sorry, I--” I started again.

“I think there have been enough apologies for one day. It has been a bad day, correct? We will leave it at that.” And then, with all the grace and arrogance of someone far superior to myself, he patted my head before sidestepping me and slipping into the men’s room.

Naturally, I seethed at first, but an oppressive weight pulled down on my shoulders and the effort of anger suddenly seemed just too exhausting. After all, I had drenched the douchebag with a rainbow hurricane and then patted him down with what I could only assume were the world’s most useless napkins. I would forgive him the head patting just this once.

For a moment, I wavered in place, having forgotten my original intention. Just a moment, mind you. I bounced from one foot to the other and then shuffled towards the lady’s room awkwardly, only to stop when a mother and her screaming child pushed past me to get through the door first.

Having an emotional breakdown in the stall next to a toddler having an emotional breakdown seemed…far too ironic. My limbs suddenly leaden, I could neither move forward into the bathrooms nor back into the crowded café where customers twittered amongst themselves and wondered about distraught clumsy mess who had spilled her drink on an overdressed executive. My breath shuddered, and teeth chattered. I felt my skin prickle and body quiver like a teacup chihuahua.

I felt warm pressure on my lower back and a body leaning over mine from behind. The smell of sour berry filled my nostrils. “Seems you are having some trouble,” a now-familiar voice drawled. My teeth clamped and grinded. Douchebag, for this was now his mental nickname, looked down at me with an expression I could not read. Maybe amusement? I could not quite tell. I wanted to kick him in the shin.

“You weren’t in there long,” I mumbled, turning my head, eyeing the exit, and wondering if stepping into the sunshine would help me recapture that light airy feeling from just hours before. Douchebag seemed to follow my gaze and understand my unspoken inclination, because in a moment he herded me towards the exit and pulled out the wire chair of one of the outdoor tables, offering me a seat. Like a well-trained labradoodle, I flopped into the chair, blaming my obedience on my ridiculous upbringing which had instilled in me a sense of weird sexist propriety… and not the fact that he was handsome, or that he somewhat intimidated me.

“Well, my suit is tarnished and there is no saving it before the next meeting. My assistant will bring me a spare within the next,” he checked his watch. “7 minutes.”

“Seems fast…” I said, scrunching my nose and mentally writing him off as a tyrant. At least my trembling had stopped and my breathing relaxed.

“I expect excellence from my assistants,” he purred. “If he is late then he has no business working under me. Now, what would you like to drink. I suspect nothing quite so colorful?”

I eyed him for a few seconds and leaned back. “Are you offering to buy me a coffee even though I just spilled unicorn vomit on your suit?” I spoke the words slowly, giving him the side eye.

“Yes, I am. Consider me Prince Charming,” a smirk twitched the corner of his lips. The little smirk, annoying as it was, made me feel… less anxious.

Did he perhaps… want to banter?

“I have quite a different nickname for you in my head,” I said, smiling coquettishly up at him and twirling a lock of hair around my finger.

“Oh? Is it Adonis?” he queried, raising both brows and leaning down towards me with eyes that seemed to dance. He did want to play! Well, I didn’t mind a little repartee, though I could not call myself an expert at the art.

“Douchebag, actually.”

“Very fitting! I commend you on your ingenuity.” Those smirking lips split into a grin and I could not help but return it. His smile seemed like something from a toothpaste ad, teeth all white, straight, and perfectly formed. I could only imagine how many hearts he melted with that smile. Damn cute douchebag.

“An iced Caramel Macchiato, please.”

“Right away, _milady_.”

“Ewww.”

I watched his broad retreating back as he sauntered into the coffee shop and guessed him to be in his mid-thirties, likely near a decade older than myself. A bit haughty and overly pushy, but at this moment I needed someone to… steer me around… as it were. I glanced briefly at my phone, wincing as notifications bubbled one after another. My brother messaging me full of concern, likely because mother had called him to badmouth me, my coworker Jenny asking me if I would pick up her shift, my mother telling me to answer my phone, some forgettable guy named Dan from tinder who had previously vanished but now wanted to see what was “sup ; )” with me.

“Here you are.” The caramel macchiato materialized, and Douchebag sat across from me with a cup of black coffee. He placed his phone face down on the table between us and set his large hand on the handle of his mug, eyes set on mine with full attention. He seemed so self-assured making eye contact. I wondered how he could manage keeping his gaze locked so straightforwardly. I placed my phone next to his after a brief pause, setting it facedown.

“I think we should probably start over,” I started, extending a hand across the table. “Hi, my name is Lily and I don’t usually spill things on people”

“Grayson,” he said, swallowing my hand in his own and shaking it firmly but without excessive tightness. “And I apologize for being brusque, though I can’t say I don’t usually behave in a manner befitting a, what was it, ‘douchebag’. We have likely both experienced a rather unpleasant morning.” He sipped his coffee slowly, savoring it, before setting it back down while I slurped my drink hastily through a straw.

I looked down at my drink and studied it, watching the condensation glint like glass beads against the plastic and the golden-brown syrup melt into a creamy white base. A froth of whipped cream puffed in a cloudy spiral on top like a frothy hat. I could feel his eyes searching in the silence, inquisitive and keen, but he did not ask me what had upset me, and I did not tell him. It was such a little thing, after all. I was being so overdramatic. I pressed down those wild feelings one by one, packed them away and stored them in a little box at the back of my mind. I just needed to buck up and smile.

I smiled.

“Yeah, but a bad start shouldn’t ruin the whole day,” I chimed. “So, Mr. Suit and Tie—”

“Grayson,” he corrected, chuckling.

“So, Grayson,” I started. “What do you do? Do you work close by?” I willed him to say yes so I would not need to worry over his poor assistant getting fired due to my negligence.

“I’m an entrepreneur,” He said casually, not quite elaborating. “And yes, I do work nearby. And you?”

I mentally kicked myself for asking an employment question. “Retail,” I said vaguely. “It’s a temporary measure while I job hunt for something in book publishing.”

“You should consider New York for something like that,” he said, brows furrowing. “There are barely any opportunities in Metro City for that particular field.”

“I can’t afford it…” I whispered. “New York is so expensive, and I feel like you need… connections, you know?” I could tell he didn’t ‘know’ because he was the type of person whose connections extended far beyond the reach this city. I suspected that he nurtured a vine-like network which crisscrossed around the country, every growing and expanding. And from the way he held himself and the cut of his suit, money certainly never crossed his mind as a deterrent for any venture. “But anyway, forget about that. It’s not important.” I did not want to watch him judging me silently. I preferred his eyes when they glittered in mirth, not when they studied me as if I were some over-complicated puzzle with missing pieces.

“Do you like books then?” He asked gently, choosing a topic that made my spine unclench and my lips pull easily into a smile. “What is your favorite book?” He pursued.

“I love books,” I sighed, like a girl praising the attributes of her true love. “I love reading. I love writing. I’ll read anything I can get my hands on, really. I’ll read the back of a shampoo bottle if I’m desperate. My favorite book is… Pride and Prejudice. I also like Georgette Heyer’s regency romances for something simple and light.”

“So cliché,” he teased. “I prefer nonfiction, myself, particularly relating to business and finance. I must be boring.”

“You’re practical. I just want to get away when I’m reading. Get far, far away,” I said, voice lilting as I thought of white chemises, flickering candlelight, and quiet parlors. I could smell the earth and sky, see a tall phaeton pulled by a pair of matching grays, and imagine the thrill of a forbidden waltz, not sanctioned by Almack’s Assembly.

My phone screamed, and I jumped.

When I say screamed, I mean it literally screamed. The ringtone I had assigned to my boss was that of a scantily clad blonde in a B-grade horror movie shrieking in terror before the Buzzsaw hacked her to pieces. Grayson looked flabbergasted and I flushed an ugly shade of red. My hand shot out and coiled around the device between us. “Sorry, it’s, um, work,” I said as I pushed the phone against my ear. “Hello?”

“Lily, I need you to come in today,” My boss spoke curtly into the receiver. “Jenny was unable to make it in and you need to cover her shift.”

“But it’s…my day off,” I started, biting my tongue. Jenny always pushed her weekends on me. Always. Usually, I allowed it, but today…

“We need you to come in. Try to be here before 10am, all right? We’re going to be busy today and I need everyone to do their part. I’ll have to dock your pay if you’re late again.” I opened my mouth to argue, to tell him I had only ever been late one time, and that was because he had posted the schedule incorrectly, however he hung up before I could do so.

I pushed my phone into my purse and glanced at Grayson who watched me inquisitively, brows arched again in that way of his.

“Thank you for the coffee,” I said as I stood, finding my mood soured at the thought of leaving our non-date. “It was nice meeting you. Unfortunately, I must get going.”

He stood as well, pulling out his wallet and proffering a sleek business card.

“Call me if you want to have a drink sometime,” he said, long fingers grazing mine as he slid the card into my palm.

I took it.


End file.
